Every You in Every Me
by miethra songweaver
Summary: AU. Three replicas: a double, a clone, an android. Three stories. Is the past alive in the present or is the present a projection of the past? Is death the end or is it the beginning where you really start to live?


disclaimer: i own only the plot.

* * *

**zero: Three**

* * *

A door opens.

* * *

You came back a full four hours and a half later than usual, smelling a little of alcohol, a little of second-hand tobacco, a little of cheap perfume, a little of sex; you positively _reeked_. It didn't matter to me much, at least not the tobacco and alcohol part, but I could almost recognize the perfume. 

You'd let yourself in- shiny shoes and straight tie and glasses and tidy hair, tainted only with the stench of lowly places and marked only by the press of blood red lips against your starched collar- and let the door click shut behind you and still I didn't look up to greet you. I couldn't; my eyes followed the path of drops of some colourless alkali as they freefell- _drip, drip, drip_- in time to your footsteps from the tip of the burette into the swirling flask below.

You'd crossed the room now and your shadow fell over the set-up as you stood quietly by the table, waiting. And still I didn't look up; titration was an arduous process and it would be such a pain if I had to start all over again just because I looked up to say hi. Especially since I had decided to use phenolphthalein (1) for this one.

For a moment there was just the sound of even breathing and of liquids dripping and sloshing. It wasn't silence, but you never could stand it even when it was only quiet.

"I'm back," you said quietly and unnecessarily. I couldn't tell if you were trying to make me notice you or if you were just trying to make it less quiet. It was funny though, listening to my voice talk to me when I wasn't even thinking of speaking. Somewhat eerie, like how Tom Ripley replicated Herbert Greenleaf's voice perfectly without a hitch in the ancient movie (2), but still amusing.

Two more drops and I turned the burette off before the solution in the swirling flask could turn into a much darker shade of pink than the champagne-tinged shade that I liked. I raised it to the light and admired the colour for a little while before replacing it on my work surface and added three drops of universal indicator to the solution with great reluctance.

The solution burst into a bright forest green and I continued with the second phase of titration.

You continued to stand rigidly by the table, still very much in character, still waiting. I knew you found it just as amusing as I did, parading around as someone you were not and pulling it off; you were proud of it. It had been your living, until my offer of interdependency came, and even then you'd only thought of it as a challenge while I thought of you as my Frankenstein.

It started off as a joke, but the end was still nowhere in sight.

If I looked up now, I knew I would be staring into my spitting image and would inevitably be awestruck once again at how well you could contain yourself in that hollow shell you'd modeled after me. But I didn't; I had more important matters on hand right now.

You're still waiting.

_Drip, drip, drip. _

Waiting.

_Drip, drip, drip._

You gave in eventually because in the safety of the apartment, the part of you that'd been suppressed in you for the better part of the day would be suppressed no longer. Like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde reversed.

"You're busy," you deadpanned, still holding on, and I held back the laughter that was threatening to burst forth; you sounded almost sullen.

The forest green melted into an airy transparent blue and I turned the burette off for the last time for the day as it faded into a steely grey a split second later.

"You can revert back to normal now. I can tell you are dying to do so, Niou-kun," I mumbled almost disinterestedly as I checked through my recorded values for errors.

"If you say so," you replied almost equally nonchalant, but you were only barely hiding you excitement.

I wheeled myself away to continue with the calculations on the other table while you transformed into yourself.

It was always the intermediate phase that was the most intolerable, the in-between that was neither you nor me.

You were noisy, as usual, and I could trace the progress of your transformation by the clatter of glasses against some hard surface or other, the slide of tie against the back of some chair or other, the clatter of shoes as they landed in some corner or other of the apartment, the creak of the couch as you threw yourself onto it with an almost blissful sigh. A shoe clattered to a stop by my wheelchair and I almost frowned.

"Wanna hear about my day?" you called from the couch with your characteristic drawl.

"I presume you had fun?" I replied distractedly as I sifted through the data I had collected for the day.

You laughed. "Hell, yeah! It was crazy! And you'd never guess who I met at the party just now!" You were high, but I didn't miss the challenge in your voice. And I never backed down on challenges.

"You met Mona, didn't you?" I said quietly before finally looking up and turning around to face you.

I would never expect you to look guilty because you never had it in you to feel guilt over anything, but I thought you'd at least look a little rueful about indirectly admitting to having gone to bed with your roommate's girlfriend. One look at the expectant grin on your face and I knew I'd fallen into yet another of your traps.

Again.

"So, you really are angry with me, huh?" you drawled as the grin widened on your face. "Gee, I thought you're over her already. She's such a slut, and you know it." You sat up and stretched in that feline way of yours. "Besides, I'm pretending to be you, remember? So what are you getting so worked up for?"

You laughed.

I watched coldly as you continued to willfully misunderstand my accusation, as you waited for me to fall into another of your traps; I would not give you double satisfaction tonight because my pride was every bit as important to me as your pride was to you.

You knew what I meant to say, and I knew what you're waiting for, but we loved ourselves too much to give in to each other. We thought what began as a joke had no other recourse but to end as a joke and we were too full of ourselves to think otherwise.

* * *

You awoke with a jolt when you heard familiar footsteps on the shiny tiles outside the apartment. It had been a dreamless sleep and yet you could feel yourself breaking out in cold sweat. You couldn't dream; you weren't made to dream, not even nightmares. 

A key turned in the door and you hurried over to open it, taking note as you passed the clock that he had once again come back long past dinner time.

He scowled when you opened the door even before he could turn the knob and you dropped your eyes to the floor out of habit as he entered. You reached out tentatively to remove his coat for him but he snapped around almost immediately.

"Don't touch me," he growled ominously, voice dripping with hate and disgust. Your hands hung in mid air and you suppressed a yelp. You started to apologise.

"Don't talk to me," he growled again before disappearing into his room.

You stood shaking by the door for a long while, not knowing what to do next. Something wet burned its way down your face and fell silently to the floor, shocking you out of your helplessness. You scrubbed hard at your eyes so that the wetness was no more; you were frantic because you knew he'd be angry again if he saw that you'd been crying.

But then again, you knew that he'd be angry at whatever you did anyway. You knew that he hated you, had hated you ever since the first time he'd laid his eyes on you; hated you with his guts so that he could never stop being angry with you.

More than angry; it was resentment.

Your eyes hurt and you knew they'd still look red if you looked in the mirror right now even though they were dry now, but you had other matters to tend to. Like the forsaken dinner in the kitchenette, for example. So you made your way into the tiny kitchen and started to clear the dishes away. You were used to the actions by now, the scraping of food off china plates and into the bin, the flushing with clear water and scrubbing with detergent-soaked sponges; you'd been doing them ever since the first day you stepped into this place. You knew he never ate anything you cooked for him, would never touch it.

He wouldn't even look at you without letting you know how unwanted and loathed you were.

And yet, you couldn't help it, couldn't help wanting to cook for him, to clean for him, to wait for him, to tend to his every possible need, to… to _care_ for him, because you were made that way and you knew it.

An alarm went off, beeping softly on the dining table, and you carefully put away the last dish before making your way to the table, wiping your hands dry on your oversized sweater. It was time for you medication again. You poured yourself a glass of warm water and poured out two red pills from the tiny bottle you had placed meticulously by the bowl of fresh violets in the middle of the table. For a moment you remembered the doctor's warning that the pills should not be taken on an empty stomach but the moment passed and you swallowed them anyway, washing them down with the water.

It wasn't as if you'd chosen not to eat on purpose; you just didn't have the appetite. But the doctor wasn't convinced the last time you were hospitalized. You didn't like the doctor though; you could look right through his hypocritical pretenses. Or maybe it's just because he'd been in charge of Yukimura-san until he died and felt weird about having to see you over and over again.

You felt the pills catch in your throat and you swallowed hard. They would not go down.

They would not go down.

You knew how everyone talked about you behind your back, you knew how despised you were among the people who knew the truth. But it wasn't your fault. You hadn't asked to be created, you hadn't asked to be given a chance at life, you hadn't asked to become _him_.

It wasn't fair.

You gulped down another glass of water but still they would not go down.

You found yourself recalling the documentaries you'd watched before, the ones with the amoebae. You remembered watching those shapeless, colourless creatures moving sluggishly, aimlessly across the screen, ramming into obstacles and couldn't help but continue ramming into them. It wasn't as if they could choose to go around them; they had no choice but to continue with their one-way track because they were made to do so.

_Forward, backward, forward, backward. _

You cried every time you watched their futile attempt to get past the obstacle because you were the only one who could understand the tragedy of being trapped in a body that couldn't do anything besides what it was made to do.

You switched off the light as you came out of the kitchen and you couldn't help but wonder if he was already asleep and if he needed his usual cup of tea. You knew that if you thought anymore you would have no choice but to go back into the kitchen and make him a cup of tea just the way he liked it.

Like the way you'd always cook the dishes just the way he liked them.

Like the way you'd always prepare the coffee just the way he liked it.

Like the way you'd straighten the shoes, iron the clothes, clean the house… do everything just the way he liked it.

You couldn't help it, and he couldn't help but hate you all the more for it.

It wasn't your fault; it was just the way you were made to be.

* * *

He should be sleeping now, and he knew it, but he wasn't. Didn't feel like it. He knew when morning came he wouldn't be able to hide the signs of his exhaustion and there would be no defense he could put up against the tirade that would be due, but right now sleep continued to elude him still. 

_I miss you so much. _

The apartment was empty except for the two of them and he felt it acutely, the loneliness that struck only at the deepest of nights. He sighed as he reached out to feel touch the cold, lifeless face before him; he thought he could almost feel the emptiness pulsing under his fingers.

He remembered how the boy used to love literature and scorned it at the same time, always coming back to throw some verse or other at him before proceeding to mock and laugh at them. He never really understood what those words meant- his forte lay with numbers and statistics- but he listened attentively to every one of his rants anyway.

And he remembered something about Dowson, one of _his_ favourites. Something, about Cynara (3) and illusions. It had been a normal day and he had come back from school, laughing in that boyish way of his as he analysed and criticized the poem in that arrogant tone he loved to use; he had thought it was funny.

He ran his hand through the thick, planted hair, wondering what it was that the boy had found so funny, wondering if he would still find it funny now.

_Akaya. _

There's nothing to laugh at when it's all too real for words.

He reached out and pulled the limp body to himself. No warmth, no rise and fall of the chest, no life; a puppet, an empty shell, a storage device for the memories that he had managed to salvage all those years ago. He thought he would cry, but his eyes were dry.

Someone told him once that the bitterest tears were the ones that flowed freely within; he never understood what it meant until now.

_Death__ is irreversible, death is eternal too. _

Death was a constant he hadn't factored into the equation; what an uncharacteristic carelessness when he'd never made a single mistake when it came to calculations his whole life. When he'd been so careful his entire life.

_You are eternal. _

He sat in the dark, waiting, holding the body to himself. He couldn't sleep, so he waited.

At six o'clock, he pressed the button at the back of the lifeless head and the body whirred to life.

"You haven't slept again," the tone was accusatory as bright green eyes glared up at him.

He smiled.

"No I haven't."

A frown. Then long, slender fingers reached up to clench his chin. "I don't know what the hell you're thinking, but it's your body. Just take care not to die on me or else."

_Akaya…_

It's Cynara reversed; for him, the illusions were alive in the day and while it lasted, he'd never have to think about the night.

He laughed and hugged the boy to his chest.

* * *

What is already opened, remains open.

* * *

**footnotes: **

(1) phenolphthalein is a pH indicator that only has one change of colour. once the pH level rises above 8 it turns from colourless to pink, so it's really tiring watching out for the change.

(2) since this fic is set somewhat in the future, the movie can onyl be referred to as ancient. this is a reference to the Matt Damon version of course- i loved it, by the way.

(3) Ernest Dowson is a decadent poet and he's truly amazing, i swear! the reference here is to his "Gone with the Wind", in which he talks about desires as illusions which dissipate once they are fulfilled, leaving a chasm of emptiness. do look it up if you're interested!

**A/N: **I have been mulling over this concept for a very long time and have finally sat down to write it out as a form of stress-relief. Initailly inspired by the movie Gattacca, I have intended for it to take on a more Scientific arc, and use it to explore certain concepts that have been fermenting in my mind. However, as a result of my recent mugging for the upcoming exams, I have added in quite a number of literature references, and I can forsee more to come. Science and literature... that's some interesting combination, huh? These references aren't thrown in for fun though! They are hints at greater things to come... or so I hope. Also, I will be experimenting with new writing techniques in this fic- as shown by the ultr confusing manner I've chosen to write this chapter in- so please comment if there are parts that confuse you, or just comment to help me improve!

Lastly, I hope this chapter has been enjoyable and thank you for reading!


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